


The Hardest Part

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexuality, Fingerfucking, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:03:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their intimacy had clear boundaries right from the first day. There were lines they simply did not, could not cross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hardest Part

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my LJ as a response to a Kinkmeme prompt.

Admitting their feelings to each other was not the complicated part. It was embarrassing enough at first and for a few days they didn’t quite know how to behave around each other. But it was not the hard part.

  
The hard part was that Watson couldn’t just kiss Holmes. That they couldn’t have sex or even pleasure each other with their hands and mouths. That the most they could do was sleep in the same bed. Or feed each other. Or occasionally hold hands. Or very, very rarely snuggle on the settee on a cold Sunday afternoon. Their intimacy had clear boundaries right from the first day. There were lines they simply did not, could not cross.

  
Watson couldn’t even blame Holmes for it. Holmes had tried. They had kissed, they had caressed, but despite Watson’s best efforts, Holmes didn’t become aroused. Not once. Watson thought it was his fault, at first. He simply left the first time it happened. Left the room, left the house, left Baker Street. He felt ashamed, humiliated even. They loved each other, yet Holmes didn’t even get hard when Watson was stroking his flaccid penis, drawing back the foreskin to caress the sensitive glans, cupping his testicles, rubbing the hot skin of his perineum…nothing. No reaction at all.

  
Watson hadn’t walked far before he realised that however humiliated he might feel, Holmes would be feeling even worse. He limped back to Baker Street as fast as he could, hobbling up the stairs and throwing open the door to Holmes’ room. Upon seeing the curiously small, miserable form of Holmes on the bed, still naked, his knees tucked under his chin and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, Watson quickly discarded his hat, coat and shoes, not caring where they fell. Sitting on the bed next to Holmes, he gently pried his arms away from his legs, and, after his initial reluctance, Holmes practically threw himself at Watson. Wrapping his arms around Holmes in return, Watson manoeuvred them into a comfortable position and held Holmes shaking form as hot tears of shame and embarrassment rolled down Holmes’ cheeks.

  
Looking up at Watson with wide, tearful eyes, he apologized for being so inadequate, for never getting things right when it came to Watson, for being such a blundering idiot. Watson held him closer, rubbing Holmes’ back and kissing his face, whispering reassurances, telling him he had nothing to apologize for. Holmes burrowed his face in the crook of Watson’s neck, gently rubbing his nose along Watson’s jaw and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Blushing, looking down, he asked Watson to undress too. And Watson did.

  
That night was the first time they slept naked together. In the dark, confessions were made, fears were revealed and promises were uttered. In the dark, silent tears fell and reassurances were whispered. In the dark, Holmes told Watson in a hushed tone how he only wanted him to be happy, as he traced moonlit patterns across Watson’s skin. In the dark, Holmes kissed the scar on Watson’s shoulder, calling it starburst tissue, a supernova on Watson’s skin. In the dark, Watson let tears slip from behind closed eyelids, as, with childlike innocence, Holmes called him beautiful. In the dark, Holmes whispered I love you, as if it were a secret. And Watson treasured it like a precious gem, kept it safe.

  
The first was not the last time they tried. It wasn’t that Holmes found the touches unpleasant, he found them quite enjoyable at times, it was simply that, try as he might, he did not find them sexually arousing. After Watson had run out of techniques and ideas and Holmes was quite sore and frustrated with both of them, Watson began to consult medical books. Day in day out he was looking for some mysterious disease, some anomaly that might cause Holmes to become impotent. Nothing. Then came the _alternative _medicine, homoeopathy, as Watson insisted on calling it. Teas and salves and lotions and incense sticks and dried herbs and expensive scented oils. None of it worked.

  
They still slept in the same bed, but gradually began to inch apart, preferring to sleep on their respective sides of the bed rather than in the middle, a tangle of sleep-warm limbs. There was a tense air about them. Watson’s patients wondered at the change in him, his sudden briskness, his impatience. Holmes’ clients barely noticed any change, but Holmes got slapped across the face a bit more often than before. Mrs. Hudson learned to avoid even the doctor as much as possible. And then began the fighting.

  
Neither of them can remember what started it all, but both of them can remember how quickly the downwards spiral, from a meaningless argument about “It was your turn to take Gladstone for a walk!” to “This is all your fault!”, began. Insults were thrown about carelessly. Low blows were dealt out without second thought. Holmes’ drug use was blamed. Watson’s expectations and pressure were blamed. And then the line was crossed. It started as Watson called Holmes inhuman, damaged, unlovable. Holmes called Watson a cripple, disgusting, useless. Or maybe Holmes started it. Does it matter?

  
Holmes took to sleeping on the settee then and Watson, though he was too stubborn to retire to his own bed, turned his back to him if Holmes did come to bed. They barely spoke to each other unless it was about a case or they were insulting each other. Even as they decided to let the matter rest for a while and Holmes crawled into bed beside Watson, head resting on his chest, they didn’t speak. In the dark, there was silence. In the dark, their hearts were heavier than in the sunlight. In the dark, Holmes said nothing. In the dark, there were no more supernovas.

  
Until, one morning, as Watson was trying to untangle himself from Holmes whose backside was pressed against his morning erection, Holmes took Watson’s arms and put them more tightly around himself, rolling his hips gently. Watson gasped, biting his lip and murmuring a warning _Holmes_. But Holmes simply sat up, pulling Watson with him and looked at him seriously.

  
“How would you feel about me being present while you masturbate?”

  
Watson sputtered, staring at Holmes with unbelieving eyes. Holmes looked back hopefully, mustering a brave smile even as he blushed a lovely shade of red. Watson never could deny Holmes anything. Especially not when it was apparent how very hard Holmes was trying to please him, to earn a genuine smile, to do the right thing. Watson gently smiled back, cupping Holmes’ stubbly cheek and giving him a nod, before leaning back against the headboard and, upon Holmes’ request, slipped his trousers far enough down to reveal his hard cock.

  
Watson felt awkward at first, doing this in front of Holmes, but after overcoming the initial embarrassment he found himself quite enjoying Holmes’ presence. Holmes simply sat back and watched Watson pleasure himself, eyes flitting over Watson’s face, his flushed neck, his swollen cock. And despite Holmes’ passivity during their encounter, Watson found that it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was neither masturbation nor sex. It was somewhere in between. And being in that place made him feel infinitely more vulnerable.

  
His climax came quickly and intensely and he felt boneless and exhausted afterwards. Holmes gathered him up in his arms and, stroking Watson’s side and kissing his face, Holmes held him until he had caught his breath. And for the first time in all those months Watson noticed that it wasn’t Holmes’ cock that didn’t respond to his ministrations; _Holmes _didn’t respond.

  
After that first time, they engaged in this _activity _on a regular basis. They tried out different ways and positions; spooning with Watson rubbing his cock against the soft curve of Holmes’ arse, panting against the back of his neck, Watson perched atop Holmes’ chest, oftentimes finishing off on his neck or chest, sometimes Holmes would even palm Watson through his trousers. But they found that they both – especially Holmes – enjoyed it most when Holmes was simply holding Watson as he masturbated.

  
During those times Holmes always lay flat on his back, mostly clothed, while Watson lay on his side, naked, half draped over Holmes’ warm body. Watson nuzzled Holmes’ neck, breathing him in and licking at the salty skin there. Holmes hummed and rubbed his back as Watson rubbed his hardening cock against the rough fabric of Holmes’ trousers. Watson rolled and pinched his own nipples, gasping against Holmes’ throat, running his nose along his jaw and sucking on his earlobe. Holmes tilted his head back, giving Watson better access to his throat, hissing only slightly when Watson nipped too hard at fragile skin, leaving curious patterns behind, like constellations of unnamed stars in unknown skies. Watson sucked and licked, creating a purple-red mark, _the Orion Nebula_, Holmes smiled to himself.

  
Watson simply buried his face in the crook of Holmes’ shoulder then, cupping his sac, squeezing and kneading, keening low in his throat. He slid his foreskin up and down the swollen head of his cock, covering and revealing the glossy skin. Closing his fist around his cock, he slid it up and down a few times, pre-come making the glide slick. He groaned and burrowed his nose deeper into Holmes’ neck, his shirt, anything, needing to smell Holmes, needing to feel his warmth.

  
Sometimes Holmes brought a small vial of oil with him, wordlessly handing it to Watson. With a low moan Watson coated his fingers with the lubricant, hooking his top leg over both of Holmes’ as he reached behind himself. He circled his puckered entrance with one slick finger, before pushing inside, throwing his head back and groaning loudly as he felt himself clench around the intruding digit. Breathing through the pain, he wriggled his finger around, pressing down on his prostate, making his entire body seize and spasm and pre-come trickle down his cock. Holmes’ encouraging voice in his ear, _yes, like that, imagine it’s me doing it to you…_

  
Soon enough he had two fingers buried inside him, fucking himself back on them, frantically rutting against the junction of Holmes’ hip, his throbbing cock leaving sticky trails on Holmes’ clothes. He arched his back, scissoring his fingers, stretching his tight hole and making his cock jump. Holmes held him closer. _Shh, calm down…it’s alright, old boy…I’m here…I’m here… _Holmes rubbed his back as a sweat broke out over his skin, trickling down his spine and gathering in the hollow of his throat. _Mmm, yes…that’s it…_ Watson became frantic then, his movements speeding up, slamming his fingers into himself and rubbing his cock, wet and red, against Holmes’ thigh. He keened in frustration, his face flushed and sweaty, as he fucked himself on his fingers, pushing down on his prostate until every jolt of pleasure hurt, every twitch of his cock made him choke and gasp, yet his orgasm remained well out of reach.

_  
Shh…slow down…slow down…it’s alright…just calm down…slowly…slowly…_ And Watson took his throbbing cock in hand, stroking himself off at a slower pace, fingers thrusting into him more slowly too. His movements soon began to speed up again as he felt his climax build. His skin felt tight, he felt hot, like he was boiling, his temples were throbbing and his hips bucking into his fist as he moaned incoherently.

  
For the last few moments Holmes bent his head and captured Watson’s mouth in a sloppy kiss, tongues sliding and licking, teeth colliding and sinking into soft flesh, Watson groaning into Holmes’ mouth. And then Watson was coming. Thick, hot spurts of come shooting onto his own hand and Holmes’ trousers as he clenched convulsively around his own fingers, a guttural growl ripped from his throat. Holmes kissed him through it, waiting for Watson to ride out the last waves of his orgasm.

  
Afterwards Watson went limp in Holmes’ arms, breathing heavily, sleepy and satiated. Holmes cleaned them up and, after removing his own soiled clothing, curled up with Watson. Then, it was always Watson who held Holmes and Holmes who draped himself over Watson.

  
Despite Watson’s doubts about this concept, he couldn’t deny that he was thoroughly enjoying himself and even he couldn’t misread the content, satisfied look on Holmes’ face. And so, it became a routine of sorts.

  
And in the dark, stars glowed on the skin of Holmes’ neck and sparkled in the skies in his eyes. In the dark, scars became supernovas, starburst tissue, a shooting star frozen in place. In the dark, Holmes called Watson beautiful. In the dark, Watson was blinded by the glow of Holmes’ moonlit skin, running his fingers over scars and bruises as if they were Braille, telling unwritten stories. In the dark, Holmes whispered I love you, the trust in his voice taking Watson’s breath away. And Watson cherished the precious gem, given to him so long ago without ever asking for anything in return.

  
The hardest part, however, was learning to accept the fact that Holmes was quite happy as it was. Learning that sharing a bed, sleeping together, a thumb stroking the inside of a wrist, a bite of toast fed during breakfast, a cold Sunday afternoon spent in companionable silence, could be more intimate than sex.﻿


End file.
